


welcome to the team, [REDACTED]

by Chillykins



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Houston Spies, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chillykins/pseuds/Chillykins
Summary: You've just been drafted by the Houston Spies, and it's time to meet your manager and teammates -- and see firsthand just how accurate of a team name it is.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	welcome to the team, [REDACTED]

**Author's Note:**

> you know how it is. you get into a new fandom, your brain thinks of a few cool-sounding sentences, and suddenly you've written 1k+. oops. as always you can find me @longestyeehaw on twitter and @johnbly on tumblr
> 
> also shoutout to everyone involved in blaseball the game is incredible the fanbase is incredible it's all incredible

You are a blaseball player for the Houston Spies.

Or at least, that’s what the commissioner announced during the draft. Since then, you’ve been moved into a car so plain that you may not have even noticed it if not for your trenchcoat-wearing escorts. They’re certainly dressing the part. The issue is they haven’t spoken once during the drive. Not to give you any sort of welcoming speech, nor to answer your questions. Yes, they’re acting as to be expected, but it is a little inconvenient at this moment.

The windows of the car are tinted so dark that you can’t see your surroundings. Even the windshield is blacked out, though the driver seems to be navigating with no issue. You settle back against the leather seat. At least you’re in the passenger seat instead of being sandwiched in the back between two trenchcoats. As it’s likely going to be a long journey -- at least the draft is in Dallas, but Texas is a big state -- you expect to be in the car for some time.

Your eyes close.

You don’t know if it’s because you fell asleep or if the Spies have some secret ways of travel, but the car pulls to a stop in what feels like little time at all. Stepping out, you find yourself in something like a parking garage. All of the cars look the same. Once again, the trenchcoats flank you and lead you to a door. You expect it to take you outside, or perhaps into a more established-looking building. Instead, there are a few steps leading down into a tunnel.

Well, it’s not to be entirely unexpected. The secrecy around the Spies is well-known. Underground -- you assume you’re underground -- tunnels seem right up their alley. It doesn’t take long for you to be taken aback by just how _many_ tunnels there are. The trenchcoats don’t think twice about their route, but you’ve lost count of how often they have to make a choice. You give up trying to understand the path and focus on following them.

There’s no sign on any of the walls that you’re within the blaseball team’s dominion. No posters, no signs, not even so much as a splash of the team’s colors. Just gray concrete. It makes sense. If anyone stumbles into the tunnels by mistake, you’re sure the Spies don’t want there to be any indicators as to where they are. Although, you have to doubt that anyone _can_ stumble into the tunnels by mistake.

It’s not until you go up more stairs and through another door that you see any proof of where you are. A door with a golden nameplate on the front identifying your manager is directly opposite you. 

“Go on in,” one of the trenchcoats says, speaking for the first time. “They’re waiting.”

On that slightly ominous note, you thank your escorts and step into the building. You’re not sure if it is a building, but you’ve decided to think of it as such. You knock on the door, wait a beat, then let yourself in. In a room that looks like it’s taken out of some black-and-white detective film, your manager stands behind their desk.

They look the same as the trenchcoats who brought you, which is to say all you can see is a trenchcoat, sunglasses, fedora, and boots. You haven’t given it much thought with your escorts, but now that it’s just you and your manager, you can’t help but try to see if you can spot any shape underneath all the layers.

You realize you can’t even tell if there is a body of any kind under the trenchcoat. But you’re a blaseball player, and you know stranger things have happened. You decide not to ponder your manager’s existence any further. They are present -- presumably -- and they are your manager, and that’s all that matters. After all, you’re a rookie. What you choose to focus on is all the more important, and wondering if your manager has a body isn’t as important as performing well on the field.

“Welcome to the team, kid,” they say. Or at least, you think they say. Since you can’t see their mouth due to the high collar of their trenchcoat, you don’t know if it has just moved. For all you know, they’re communicating telepathically. “The ride go okay?”

You nod. They’re likely just trying to be polite. You doubt they would’ve done anything if you had said otherwise. All things considered, the ride had gone well. That said, if not for the team’s name, you would have been more alarmed about the whole routine. You remain still as your manager studies you. You’re not sure what they’re looking for, if anything.

To make it less awkward, you look out the window. It’s a nice view of a skyline. It certainly looks like Houston, from what you’ve seen. Before you can compliment it, the window suddenly shows snowy woods. Ah. Just a screen, then. So you still don’t know definitively whether you _are_ in Houston, but you have little doubt you’re in the right place. Wherever the right place is.

“Do you have any questions?” your manager asks finally.

Yes, many. But you shake your head. The Spies seem like an orderly organization. You trust that they will tell you what you need to know. Nothing more than that, but you don’t want to be overloaded with details anyways. Blaseball has enough to think about without any conspiracies that your team may or may not be involved in.

Your manager laughs. “Good answer. There are some things that...what’s the phrase, I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you?”

Your laugh is a little more nervous than theirs. It does seem like a waste of a draft pick to immediately kill the player, but you’ll be lying if you say it’s impossible to imagine. If they notice your lack of enthusiasm at what you hope is a joke, they don’t react. Instead, they clap you on the back like an old friend. The contact feels solid enough. Your mind briefly goes back to the body debate before refocusing.

“I bet you’re wondering when you’ll get to meet the rest of the team, huh.”

Once again you nod. Half the fun of blaseball is your team. You’re still close with a number of your Blittle League teammates, and you’re interested in seeing how you fit in with the Spies. And you can only assume you will be presented with your trenchcoat. Everyone likes trenchcoats. You are not immune to the desire to own a trenchcoat. Apart from its aesthetic, it will make it all seem official, your role on the team. Then you can get to what you love best, the other half of the fun of the splort: playing the game itself.

Your manager walks to the door. Sensing you should follow, you do so. You become just as lost in the tunnels as you did on arrival. How long would you be wandering if not for your guide? You can swear you hear groans somewhere down the tunnels to your left. It’s the sort of noise you make when you’re stuck in traffic. Perhaps it’s also the noise of someone hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of the Spies’ offices.

“Once you receive your uniform, it’ll be easier for you to move around,” your manager explains, as if they’ve read your mind. Maybe they have. “There’re still some places just meant for us higher-ups, but you won’t be needing someone to show you where to go every time.”

The amount of thought that has gone into your new organization’s setup is incredible. You suppose it has to be, given who they are, but it’s impressive nonetheless. As before, every walkway looks the same to you. Your manager walks deliberately. You’re not sure how long you’ve been walking. You may need an energy drink before you even have the chance to train with your teammates.

Eventually, the two of you reach some stairs. Your manager pushes open the door at the top and gestures you through. The usual locker room chatter reaches your ears before you even have a chance to look around. A mix of languages and noises, but the playful inflection is the same. They go quiet once they notice you. A little awkwardly, you lift a hand in a wave. One of the many team logos is emblazoned in the center of the room, with the lockers against the wall in an arc around it. A surprisingly normal locker room, really.

“Team, this is [REDACTED],” your manager says. “I’ll leave you all to get acquainted. Don’t take too long. I want to see what they can do out there on the field with you.”

Your manager walks back out, presumably to take another route to get out to the field. You’ve only seen the Spies’ stadium on screens. And even then it’s not much to look at, nondescript as it is, with no landmarks around it. All the same, the thought of the grass and dirt under your cleats fills you with a bubbling enthusiasm. But first, team bonding.

“So, you’re the new guy,” one of your teammates says.

You confirm the obvious.

“Welcome to the Spies.”

You’ve just finished your thank you when another teammate approaches, a bundle in their arms. They hold it out to you, and you accept it like it’s a fragile work of art.

“Your locker is next to mine,” they say, pointing to it. “Hope you don’t mind my pterodactyl screeching. It’s my pregame ritual, you know?”

You nod. Pregame rituals -- while occasionally strange -- are a vital piece of the game. The one time you forgot yours as a Blittle Leaguer, your team was shut out and you dropped the easiest out you’d ever see. It’s not superstition if it works, after all.

“Go ahead and try the uniform on. Make sure that it’s not too long. We had one guy trip over the end of theirs and get tagged out in the bottom of the ninth. When we were on a two-out rally.”

That sounds like a surefire way to land yourself in...well, wherever the Spies put people that they don’t want to see anymore. Not that you’re certain that they will do such a thing. But. If they do. You’re sure there’s some special place that you don’t want to be anywhere near. With that in mind, you unwrap the bundle. A khaki trenchcoat stares up at you, your name and number printed in black on the back. You pull it on, and you feel like a new person.

Joy swells in your chest. After all your years of hard work, here you are. An Internet League Blaseball player. Not everyone can make it to this point, but you did. You have the trenchcoat to prove it.

Sure, your organization has its quirks, but what blaseball team doesn’t? What matters is they wanted you enough to draft you, and you’ll prove it was the right decision. Your teammates make various sounds of approval at your new layer. Perhaps being in such a mysterious organization leads to closer bonds between teammates. If so, it’s a trade-off you’re more than happy to make.

You are a blaseball player for the Houston Spies, and you’re ready to make your mark.


End file.
